Insertion was simple. Five miles away from Shawn Savages mansion home a pair of rented eighteen wheelers rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the Louisiana highway. The Shogun disembarked first. Ninety nine Orochi and assorted mercenaries and allies followed thereafter.
The scene was surreal. Red clan shinobi drew blades, counted arrows and mentally prepared themselves for battle beside a long black highway. The Shogun's cloak fluttered in the wind as she went over last minute details.
Then the time for preparation was over. Ivana lifted a black armored hand and shouted a command. The Orochi moved as one. A red tide swept into the miles of woods between them and their target's home, the Shogun in the lead.
Miles flew past under their feet as they flowed over swampy bayou's, through clusters of swaying willow trees and carpets of lush moss. Fat insects buzzed in the humid air as the Orochi passed like a crimson whisper on the wind, leaving barely a track or trail and unnoticeable to all but the sharpest eyes.
Layers of defenses were expected. The Savages were no fools, they would be prepared. Ivana brought the Orochi up short, well before they reached the clearing that housed Shawn Savage's stately dwelling. A ebony gauntlet gave a second symbol and the Orochi drew and loosed their arrows as if possessed of one mind.
Darts of black and silver soared from the emerald canopy of the Louisiana wood. They reached the apex of their arch and fell, a rain of sinister steel and silicone.
When they struck the ground the tranquil afternoon was shattered; a cacophony of detonations spewed razor sharp shrapnel in asterisks of silver slivers amid raging orange, boiling napalm. Others bounced and spun as choking black smog billowed from them, blinding and obscuring as the Orochi swept forward in a tide of crimson and steel.